i wonder when is she dropping by

I wonder for how long the SG showrunners are planning on pretending that Mon-El/Karamel is universally loved and the best thing about Season 2 when within a week it was confirmed that not only does their lead actress dislike that relationship so much that she’ll go to considerable lengths to avoid talking about it but also that the presence of Mon-El/Karamel is currently so toxic to the show that its ratings have dropped to an all-time low

Joker Imagine - ‘Do it’

josie16401

submitted:

Hey, I was just wondering if you could do an imagine of the joker raiding someplace and having the reader there and instead of dropping to the ground when he starts shooting she just stands there. Eventually he would walk up to her while raising a gun to her head and she says “Do it”. Please and thank you!


A/N: Here it is. I hope you like it boo :)


Originally posted by diablito666

Originally posted by benkotuyumyasen

Your P.O.V.

The main bank in Gotham seemed to busy all the time! I sighed impatiently and shifted my position on the dark blue seat. I had a bag on my legs with important papers I had to talk about, but I knew the wait would be long. There was at least 10 people ahead of me in the number line so I just had to sit and wait. It was friday so it was extra packed. People wanted their money, some had to discuss their issues and so on. I looked at the white marble floor and saw dozens of feet, heels and boots and sneakers. Gotham was full of people and everyone was different.

The clock started to get closer to 9 p.m. which meant that I had been waiting for half an hour. Wonderful.As I got up to go and use the washroom, I felt the ground shaking. A split second later a loud bang interrupted everything. I lost my balance and fell on the ground, landing on my bum. I grunted in pain as my tailbone got a hard impact.

What the fuck is going on?

The next thing I knew was that people were screaming in fear. I opened my eyes and saw people dressed up as clowns, pandas and all kinds of things running inside through a hole they created on the wall. Some were already stealing money and others guarded the hostages, us. One of the bad guys with a batman mask shot a man in his stomach and so I witnessed how he fell fell on the ground, crying out in pain. My eyes froze to look at the situation. The bad guy shot the man again, this time in his head. The innocent man died, just like that. I saw it all happen. His blood was pooling around his body and his head looked really fucked up. The sight made me feel sick.

This day had been the worst so I was too angry to let fear make me obey. I got up and looked around better. The furniture around the hole was set on fire and everything grew into a huge mess. A bad feeling was obvious in my gut. This was obviously a robbery. My body froze a little bit and then reality sunk in. We could all die.

‘’You’’ A raspy voice barked from behind me and then I heard a gun loading. A woman on the ground next to me whimpered and hid her head. I sighed shakily and turned around to face the guy holding me at gunpoint. Instead of facing someone with a silly mask, I saw the deepest reality of a criminal clown. Behind me was the one and only Joker.

My eyes widened as I met his blue ones. He looked at me angrily, making the black make-up around his eyes seem darker. His green hair was put back nicely and he had red lips. I was too scared to pay attention to his clothes, but I saw that he was wearing something black and dark red. Then I saw the gun he held, a personalized pistol aimed straight at me. My breath hitched in my throat. I was this fucking close to the Joker!

‘’Get down princess’’ He growled angrily and tried to scare me by raising the gun closer to my face. I gulped at looked at the hole of the gun that could shoot a bullet any second. Joker’s finger lied dangerously on the trigger, but he didn’t pull it yet. ‘’No’’ I answered sternly, slightly worried about doing so, but I didn’t want to surrender.

I saw confusion wash across Joker’s face. I bet I was one of the few people who told him that. ‘’If I were you, I’d listen to me’’ He warned me with a raspy voice. People around us were staring at me in disbelief. yes I was scared, my heart was pounding in my chest and I felt lightheaded, but I was too self assured to kneel down. They’d kill us anyway.

‘’Well clownface you’re not me’’ I spat at him angrily and then expected to get shot, but nothing happened. Joker looked at me wickedly, his eyes moving from my left eye to my right. He gritted his teeth and then squinted those crazy eyes of his. ‘’Don’t talk to me like that or I’ll shoot you!’’ Joker yelled at me and hit my stomach with the gun. I swallowed the pained cry and kept my eyes focused on his.

I didn’t expect my life to end like this..

 ‘’Do it’’ I whispered quietly, but I knew he heard me. I felt tears stinging my eyes. I was so close to crying, but I tried to hold my tears back. I stood there, completely in display for Joker to shoot me and that’s what I waited for. He waited as well. I grew a little impatient again. Maybe my life wouldn’t have to end like this. As he took good time to think, for some reason I didn’t know, I decided to attack him.

I leaped towards the crazy man in front of me and legit jumped on his chest. Joker nearly stumbled, but he caught his balance with his leg. Then he turned us over so I was the one falling. I hit the ground with my back, but it didn’t stop me from getting up again. Tears ruined my makeup and I cried silently, yet I kept trying. I tried to slap Joker, but he grabbed my wrist and pinned it around so it hurt a little bit.Then he put the gun in front of my face again. 

Oh fuck. I thought quickly and kneed him, but I hit his leg which didn’t even hurt that much. ‘’You’re a naughty naughty girl’’ Joker hissed and then pushed me against the floor. He put his foot on my hips so i couldn’t get up. Then he pointed his gun towards me. ‘’Too bad I’ll have to kill you’’ He sighed and I watched his his pale finger hugged the trigger. ‘’Then do it’’ I encouraged this crazed criminal, facing the fact that I would die. It’s not like many people would miss me anyway.

I didn’t even bother to wipe away my tears. I just stared into Joker’s eyes and ignored the screams and gunshots in the background. What was he waiting for?  ‘’Do it!’’ I screamed at him, hating this feeling. I was scared and angry at the same time. Just lying on the ground and waiting for my painful death was disgustingly awful. But the bullet didn’t seem to come.

Joker leaned down and grabbed my black jacket so he could pull me up to my feet. I grunted in pain because his touch was harsh. Then he pulled my back close to his chest and put the cold gun against my head, holding his other arm around my waist. All of this was so confusing!

But it didn’t take long for me to know why he did this. In front of us stood Batman, in his dark knight suit. I was the hostage that Joker would kill if Batman would come closer. I could feel my heartbeat all the way in throat as I stood there. I had never been this scared in my life. There was nothing I could do.

Joker’s goons were gone. Some were lying on the ground in pain, but most of them had escaped already. So it was Joker vs Batman with me in the middle. Yay. This felt like some kind of nightmare. ‘’Let her go Joker’’ Batman spoke with his deep voice. He could probably see my quivering body. ‘’Why would I? You don’t think I’m that fucking stupid do you?’’ Joker laughed darkly and caressed my cheek with the cold metal. Batman didn’t answer immediately. He seemed to be in deep thoughts.

‘’She doesn’t have anything to do with this’’ Batman tried again. He stepped closer, but Joker didn’t approve that. The next thing I knew was the Joker shot the ceiling and then put the gun back towards my head. Batman froze and didn’t come closer. The shot was a clear warning that I’d be next.

‘’Just go away Batsy. You can’t save her, just like you couldn’t save Rachel’’ Joker spoke darkly. Everyone knew about Rachel. Joker had set up a trap a few years ago which led Harvey Dent to lose his mind and half of his face. Then Rachel had died. Not that I liked what happened, but Rachel was my former co-worker and we never got along. When she died, I wasn’t that sad about it. But what Joker did was still wrong. Even tho he kinda did me a favour, I couldn’t say I wished for her death.

I noticed how Batman got angry by Joker’s rude comment.   ‘’Now pretty how about we go out of here together and leave Batsy alone,hm?’’ Joker purred into my ear and tried to walk sideways to the entrance. A car had pulled over and a goon was driving. Batman hadn’t noticed, but I could tell him. Did I want to? This was all messing with my mind and I was way too confused to think straight.

Batman leaped closer to us. I startled so bad that I screamed and kicked the dark knight. Why? I didn’t want to get shot. ‘’Leave me alone!’’ I sobbed out loud to Batman, partly feeling guilty for kicking him. Batman seemed surprised and he stepped a few steps back. He tried to grab one of his weapons, but Joker was quicker. The next thing I knew was that he pushed me inside the car. Joker’s goons shot at Batman who had to seek shield. That gave Joker plenty of time to get in the car and so we escaped the scene.

‘’You did so well kitten’’ Joker laughed evilly and sat next to me. I was on my back and I was too scared to sit up straight. I had kicked the only person who could have saved me and now I was heading to ..who knows where with fucking Joker! I really fucked up.

‘’I didn’t mean to do that’’ I whimpered with a small voice. I was letting reality replace my shock and I got really scared. But a part of me found Joker really interesting. I knew I should hate him, but after thinking about the crazy clown prince of crime for a few years, my thoughts had formed a big mess. I had mixed feelings about this man. 

‘’But you did it’’ Joker answered me and then took a deep breath. He wasn’t holding me at gunpoint anymore. ‘’There’s bad in you and I’ll promise to get it through baby’’ He added mysteriously. My eyes widened. Bad in me? ‘’I’m nothing like you’’ I hissed and then sat up a little better. So I’d either die or become like him? I knew I could try to escape, but we were in a car that drove so fast I bet the driver broke all the laws he could.If I’d jump out, I’d die.

‘’Don’t be so negative. You’re feisty, I like that’’ Joker admitted and seemed like a whole new person. Earlier he was more scary, now he was just plain crazy and a little flirty. I kept an angry glare on my face. ‘’Hey, drive us to the X4 hideout!’’ Joker growled angrily at the driver. His tone was really scary, something you wouldn’t want to make worse.

Then he turned to face me again. That’s when I paid attention to details. He had ‘damaged’ ‘J’ and a star tattooed on his white face. He had some scars from heists and his blue eyes were actually pretty. I felt like I could study his features and tattoos for ages, but I was too scared to. Also he was a bad guy. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I should be more scared and more angry.

‘’I can see through your anger’’ Joker giggled and then grabbed something from his pocket. I followed his moves silently and then saw a cigar that he lit up and put the thick stick on his lips. He inhaled the toxins and after a few seconds breathed the smoke out. I tried to show him that I was disgusted, just because I wanted to go away. I put my hand on my nose and squinted my eyes.

‘’Want some?’’ He looked at me and offered me the cigar. I looked at it, then at Joker who seemed more relaxed around me and then I looked out of the window. We drove so fast that I couldn’t focus on anything. All I knew was that I was stuck with the Joker and it stressed me out. So I grabbed the cigar and inhaled it deeply. The smoke entered my body and made me feel both disgusted but relaxed. I breathed it out in the car and then gave it back to Joker. 

‘’You didn’t mean it when you told me to do it didn’t you?’’ Joker asked me with a raspy voice. I felt a little numb, because this all happened so suddenly. I wasn’t sure what I should feel. Fear? Anger? Sadness? I was too baffled to know. I looked at Joker who had a smirk plastered on his face. ‘’You’ll find out’’ I replied shortly and then shut my eyes.

How could this be real?

Oh, man, “Deep Cut” is a really cute nickname.  Bismuth is…wow, she’s kind of everything that Jasper’s not with this sort of thing?  This relentless positivity is great.  She just doesn’t give a damn what you are as long as you’re being cool.  Overcooked gem?  Yo, what’s up, small stuff?  Human?  How’s it hangin’, meatball?

She’s great.  I wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.

anonymous asked:

i never realized how heavy garnet drops when she re-fuses?

it was actually a very specific thing Rebecca and Ian did during the storyboard notes! they really wanted her to have a heavy impact with her fro snapping! It gives her being a fusion that much more’’impact’’ when she refuses, it’s a subtle visual to help us equate her to being a fusion because fusions are large and powerful~ 

Cassandra: She was looking for them after they wandered away from camp in the early morning, to retrieve them so they could hit the road. She stopped short when she heard singing, beautiful singing, coming from somewhere nearby. She followed it and watched as the Inquisitor picked elfroot and sang with the most beautiful voice she had ever heard. The Seeker’s breath hitched, and she dared not interrupt the Inquisitor as she stared and listened in silence. The Inquisitor finally turned and saw her staring, wide-eyed, jaw dropped. They stop and turned red in the face as Cassandra sheepishly smiled at them. “I’m sorry to eavesdrop, but you just have such a wonderful voice. Perhaps you would like to sing again later, in camp?” she pleaded, jittery with hope and excitement as they shyly nodded in assent. If Romanced: “Oh, my love, that was…” She beamed. “That was perfect. I would… appreciate it if you sang for me, sometime.” From then on, when they are alone, the Inquisitor often sings to her as she cuddles with him, in utter bliss.

Blackwall: He was baffled when he heard a most beautiful singing voice coming from the stables as he walked back to the barn. He smiled as he nods his head along to the tune and looked around the corner for the owner of the voice. He almost gasped in shock when he saw the Inquisitor tending to their horse, peacefully singing a tune. They stopped, embarrassed, when they notice Blackwall, who smiled again. “Ah, please, don’t stop on account of me,” he reassured, “you have a great voice. It brings a little light into Skyhold. You ought to sing in the tavern sometime!” If Romanced: “My Lady, that was… that was breathtaking.” he said when he was finally able to speak again. “Please, would you be willing to sing again, sometime? You have the most beautiful voice.”

Iron Bull: He heard them sing for the first time when they join in with the Chargers singing their theme song in the tavern one night. The Chargers stop, stare, and listen, Bull included. The Inquisitor, flustered, stopped and before they could even ask what was wrong, the Chargers all groan in unison and egg them on to keep singing. Bull whistled. “Damn, Boss. Come on, keep going! You sounded fan-fucking-tastic.” Sheepishly, the Inquisitor carried on, and all listened and cheered at the end of the song. Bull pats their back and offers a drink on him. “Niiice. One more song? Please?” If Romanced: As soon as they’re done singing, the Inquisitor gave him a playful wink, and he growled lowly, picked them up, and dragged them upstairs. The others cried out in protest– they wanted to hear more– but neither the Inquisitor or Bull cared. Bull had never been this attracted to a voice before.

Sera: She went up to their room to find them to ask if they wanted to go pranking around Skyhold when she heard them. Her eyes widened, and she grinned, almost forgetting the pranks altogether. At the top of the stairs, she found the Inquisitor singing, carefree, as they sat at their desk doing work. They stopped, blushing as they realized there was someone listening. Sera, in turn, pouted as they stopped. “What are you stopping for?! I want to hear the rest!" If Romanced: "Oooh, seren… serenading me, yeah?” she teased as she came up. The Inquisitor doesn’t stop; she just smiled at the sight of her girlfriend and kept going. When she’s done, Sera kissed her and giggled. “You’re not only nice on the eyes. You’re nice in your voice too. Everything about you is nice.”

Varric: The Inquisitor was playing Wicked Grace with him and a table of their companions, and they lost the round. They get dared to sing, and they do it, albeit reluctantly. He never expected them to be such a wonderful singer, however, as the beautiful melody rings through the air. By the time it’s over, he just stares at them, a million words in his head, but all that came out was. “Shit. Wow.”

Cole: He saw and heard their memories of singing before, happy and carefree. He then approached the Inquisitor with a request. “Lifting, flying, free and beautiful, your voice can help people. You should sing. It will make them happy.” The Inquisitor, baffled, asked who is “them,” to which Cole calmly answered: “Everyone.”

Vivienne: She heard the Inquisitor singing to themselves in their room as she went up to speak to them, and she stopped and listened. A grin crawled onto her face, and when it was over, she carried on up the stairs. “Bravo, my dear,” she praised, “we really ought to hold a musical salon sometime. Your voice could enchant almost anyone.”

Dorian:
Like Cassandra, he went off to find them and bring them back to camp when he heard them singing. He follows the voice, curious, and beamed at the sight of the Inquisitor, who stopped short when they saw him. The man laughed and began to clap vigorously. “Bravo, Inquisitor! Encore! Oh, don’t be embarrassed, your voice is outstanding. It almost puts mine to shame.” If Romanced: His eyes glittered with awe as he listened, taken aback by the song. When his lover noticed him finally, he nodded, encouraging them to finish the song. When it was over, he sighed dreamily. “Why don’t you sing for me more often, hmm? That velvety voice of yours… it’s powerful. In more ways than one.”

Solas: He caught the Inquisitor singing in the early morning one day, when no one was in the garden, as they tended to some of the plants. He was taken aback briefly by the beauty of their voice, and when he finally chose to enter the garden, he smiled at their bewildered expression. “Please, don’t stop. Your voice shouldn’t be hidden. You have quite the talent.” If Romanced: Lavellan sang to him one evening as they sat and watched the stars, and a blissful smile found its way to his face. They began to sing together in Elvhen, of an old song nearly lost to the ages. He loves to teach her songs, and together, they sing. One night, Sera heard them and gagged. “Eww. Elfy elf music– just do it already. Away from here.” It doesn’t stop them at all.

Leliana: She found them in the library downstairs by the storage room one day singing as they picked through the dusty old books. The spymaster had meant to find them to talk about some of her agents and plans, but the woman stopped to listen in the shadows. Finally, when they finished singing, she entered the old library, calm and cool as ever, though her eyes were lit up. “Impressive,” she remarked calmly, “you’d make an excellent bard.”

Josephine: When it reached the time a war table meeting was to be held, she arrived earlier than usual, and stopped in the hall at the muffled sound of the Inquisitor singing. Gasping gently, she inched forward and gingerly pushed the door open, so she could better hear the beautiful sounds coming from the Herald. She covered her gaping mouth in shock with her loose hand as she listened, utterly enraptured. The Inquisitor eventually noticed her in the doorway, and they stop, mortified. Josephine frowned as they stopped. “I beg your pardon, Inquisitor! It’s just… you have the loveliest voice.” If Romanced: “Oh, my love!” she declared, beaming at them, cheeks going red. “Please, don’t stop! I already yearn for more of your beautiful voice. Please, won’t you sing for me sometime?”

Cullen: He was looking around Skyhold for the Inquisitor when he heard their voice not far from inside one of the towers. His eyes widened as he followed it to the source, and found the Inquisitor singing, completely unaware of his presence, and he grinned as a small chuckle escaped him. The Inquisitor stopped and stared at him, bewildered, and he feels bad. “Sorry, Inquisitor.” he apologized, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your voice is quite good. I apologize for eavesdropping.” If Romanced: “I… er… I… wow.” It was all he could manage at first; he was just so blown away by his girlfriend’s beautiful voice. His lover giggled and began singing another song. Cullen soon found himself singing with her, all his concerns forgotten for the moment.

BONUS:

Scout Harding: Wooow, Inquisitor!” she cried in utter excitement as she heard them sing for the first time. She was so giddy, practically jumping for joy as an idea unfurled in her head. “Would you have any interest in joining the Singquisition? We’d knock ‘em dead! Heh. Not literally.”

Shouldn’t you be over this by now?

I’m sitting on the couch, feet tucked underneath the cushions. My scalp still tingles with the pomegranate shampoo that made you turn and smile when I sat down. I look at the clock ticking in the living room and wonder what’s so special about her cheap perfume.

What did you see in him?

Do, not did. If you look closely enough, you can see her legs clenching whenever you walk by. She likes the way you walk, you know, the way you dig your hand in your pocket, half slumping, half straight, the way you lift your head in the air a fraction of a degree. Degrees. If she dropped her calculator, would you pick it up? Probably not. Not because you’re rude, but because you don’t notice anything. Never have, never will. She likes that about you, too.

He’s not worth it.

Of course not. I’ve never been good with faces, but when I close my eyes, I can see your array of solid colored T-shirts projected like film against my eyelids, your sun-drenched skin, your Adam’s apple bobbing in a hiccup of a guttural laugh. I can taste your fizzy adolescence from here, carbonation caught in my  throat and gone in a second with a less than temporary sting. I want to hold you forever. But he’s not worth it. Didn’t I just say it was a real shocker he had a girlfriend in the first place? Poor girl, she could do so much better than him. I bite down on the straw of my soda and blow a few bubbles as if for emphasis. They look at me and smile in approval. Priceless is different than worthless, the ice is melting at the bottom of my cup, and I know I could never do better than you.

Are you okay?

I nod. I wonder if when she ends the call and mumbles, “I love you,” the words laced with sincerity and sleep, you lay awake at night, body clenched stiff with delight, your thumb hovering over the end call button but not quite touching it, as giddy as I am when you so much as glance my direction. You two look good together. I swear I’m happy. Scrawl that in the yearbook and sign it with a flourish, hand it back with a grin and feel your heart bust open like an exploded pen. We both have our reasons.

You’re responsible for your own sadness.

Who’s to blame? I trace my finger over the kitchen countertop, but I really want to trace it on the planes of your face. Feel your skin like Braille, the boyish raise of your cheekbones signals your pleasure, the downward slope your emptiness. My mom will ask me if I’m okay when she opens the door and sees me sopping wet from the hurt that cascades like swollen raindrops down my shoulders, the smell of teenage infatuation both overwhelmingly pungent and devastatingly foreign. A perfume tucked back long ago that I’ve just spilled all over myself. I tell her not to worry, my teeth are chattering. I break, I buy.

You need to get over it.

It’s easy to say, easy to think, easy to lather up the tangles when you know he’s going to stroke and inhale your hair in the morning. Tear free. But human will is a much more fragile concept.

—  it’s (not) my fault you didn’t like the answers
Human Mate

(Benjamin x Reader)

Request:  Hi, can I get an imagine where you’re Bella’s human twin and you’re extremely clumsy and one day you accidentally trip and crash into a rather sexual position with Benjamin, who luck and comedy has - you’re his mate?


You sometimes wondered if they had switched you at birth because you and Bella were nothing alike. She was your twin sister but you couldn’t be more different.

There wasn’t a day where you didn’t trip or drop something around the house. When Bella moved back here your dad had been exceptionally glad she was not as clumsy as you were. You had been happy to have her back as well, though you’d been visiting her and your mother very often, living together again was great.



Finding out Bella had become a vampire was strange enough and when she introduced her daughter to you, you weren’t even surprised anymore.

You had met the Cullens, they were nice people though you couldn’t quite understand Bella’s fascination with them. Being immortal and living forever sounded, well long. You couldn’t imagine watching everyone you love dying.

Normally you’d visit them more often but with all the vampires there right now you kept your distant. You only went over because Renesmee had forgotten some of her things the last time they visited and you knew how much she’d miss them.

When you arrived at the house it was very quiet. Everyone was probably out training or doing…something else.

“Bella? Renesmee?” You shouted into the empty house, maybe someone was here after all and you just hadn’t heard them. You decided to just leave her stuff up in Edwards room and go back home. You put everything down and headed down the stairs.

Somehow you stumbled over your own foot and fell head first down the stairs. You braced yourself for the harsh impact but it never came. You opened your eyes, looking back into two red ones. You blinked a few times but the guy was still there so you hadn’t imagined him. You sat awkwardly in his lap, your hands around his neck. He smiled up at you, his on hands on your waist, holding you in a tight grip.

“Are you hurt?”

“N-no…” You mutter, blushing a little when you realize the position you’re into. You shuffle around a little and he loosens his grip on you.

“You’re so small.” He says while looking you over with a warm smile. You hadn’t seen him before and probably should have been scared but he did not look threatening to you. There was something interesting about him that intrigued you.

“I…uh?”

“I’m Benjamin and you must be Bella’s sister right?”

“Mhhm.” You say a bit in a daze while you look at him. You suddenly remember that you probably should get up and stumble to your feet.

“The others will be back soon if you want to wait for them.”

“No that’s alright I was just dropping something off.”

“Are you sure?” He asks a little disappointed, “I could entertain you in the meantime.”

“And how would you do that?” You say with a raised eyebrow, laughing a little at his comment.

“This way.” He walks to the front door and into the woods. You watch as he moves his hands and the leaves are beginning to swirl around you in what looks like a little tornado. You look in awe, fascinated by his powers.

“Wow…” You breathe out, “That is entertaining but I have to go back right now anyway.”

“Okay. I’m sure I’ll see you around again.”

“Yes…”

Benjamin watched as you left, smiling to himself. He never thought his mate would be a human but after seeing you he was sure you were the one he’d spent his life with.

4

It’s just something i wanna see. at rwby vol.4 op we saw Adam draw his sword to Blake

so it might be pretty cool for me if Yang can show up in time and grab his sword and said “judge from the way you treat a woman you have no one teaching you how to be a gentleman huh bully” then Adam slash her sunglasses in half when she jump backwards

she yelling “That bull!! It’s my favorite one and limited edition you shit!!” Blake still shocks on her shoulder while Papa donna run to them with mama donna and Sun run after him

Ghira wonder he ask “how did you do that i know him.he can easy cut though your aura by
his sword”
Yang just drop Blake down licking the blood she stares at Adam as her eyes turn red and said

“Trust me i know it very well”

after the fight Adam has been force to retreat by Whitefang member or one of salem’s

Belladonna family take Yang to their home treat her wound
all member stare at her robot arm
Ghira “it why you said that you know it very well huh”
Yang give him a small smile and said “He don’t need to cut it twice,do he??”

with that Blake feel guilty hit her really hard she can’t even look at Yang in the eyes as she sit opposite the blonde next to her father so she excuse herself out of the room mama donna wonder what wrong with her baby girl so she go after her left Yang Ghira and Sun sit awake by themselves

Ghira “when?”
Yang “since the fall of beacon..”
Sun —sip tea—(watch at yang and papa donna)

==============================

There!! What playing in my head i know Yang still not fully recovery by it might be good if we can see her oldself more often i love her playful smile and sorry if i write it wrong or confuse i still learning English language

ok so I still have to read a lot of asks, but I don’t want to answer a load about the photoshoot so I’ll address it in one go.

1) beautiful photos.

2) I wish I had an ass like Lauren’s.

3) The MTV piece was very obviously constructed by the 5H team and I can only think that they are explicitly letting everyone know that Lauren is ‘single’ for a reason. I think this means that soon Lauren must be dropping the collab with Halsey (and I guess Steve Aoki) so she needs to be single so that she can be shipped with Halsey for promo.  That’s my guess anyway. I was actually wondering when they were going to ‘put Lauren back on the market’ following the coming out. From a PR stand-point its good for promo and gossip. It’s also good timing as the girls are away working for a while so this punctuated a potential quiet time (along with DWTS).

4) I honestly find it slightly worrying. Most of the time when the PR campaigns have used the girls’ personal lives its mostly worked through guess work and hints (with maybe a couple of exceptions e.g. Austin). This time they are giving specific info and stories. I’m just worried that their PR stuff is going to go into one direction/Taylor swift kind of territory. When you have articles revealing and talking about your romantic history (real or not) in actual specific terms, and not just rumours, thats when I feel it starts getting a bit dark. I hope Lauren can handle having stories about her personal life being purposefully fed to the general public for publicity narratives. My feeling is that she has been able to negotiate quite a lot about the nature of her PR campaigns (e.g. coming out, being able to be politically active, being able to do a stunt with an artsy photo shoot rather than a trashy pap shot). In other words, i think she has a handle on things. But I still worry. 

This. This is my beautiful, wonderful, loving, amazing girlfriend. When I look at this picture, it makes me smile so much because I see she’s falling asleep on facetime with me on New Years after the ball dropped, but I get happy knowing that I’m going to be with this girl for the rest of my life, and soon we will never ever have to spend a New Year without being in each others arm’s. I promise anyone who reads this, I love this girl with every fiber of my being. This is the girl I am going to spend my nights in with eating chinese food in our sweats while watching Friends all day. This is the girl I will spend my nights crying on when life gets a little tougher, and I will also be her shoulder to cry on. This is the girl I am going to have water gun fights with in our clothes, probably in the house too. This is the girl I am going to raise cats with. This is the girl I am going to play board games with, watch youtube with, and bake with. This is the girl I’m going to sleep next to every single night for the rest of my life. Things may be difficult now, but every single struggle we have to face right now, every odd we have against us… this struggle is so worth it. Baby, I love you endlessly… always.

A Few Minutes More

Originally posted by chatnoirs-baton

A/N:  A request from @lovelyshmi.  Thank you.  I must admit I don’t know if I did justice with this story. What we witnessed between them in 7x05 is beyond exceptional but I hope you enjoy this all the same.

Michonne can only stand by and watch as Rick tries to convince Carl that he is needed on the run to procure supplies for when the Saviors return.  The slight guilt she feels tries to grow as she wonders if she should travel with Rick as well.  She knows it would make him feel better but she hasn’t arrived at that place yet.  She hopes she will get there for his sake and her own, but right now, she just needs to take this time and think things through.

Rick eventually drops his head and exits the room when he realizes he is not getting through to his son.  Michonne follows closely behind, toying with her necklace thoughtfully.

She stops only inches away from him, looking into his worrisome blue eyes, wanting to reassure him in some way.  She watches as he retrieves a walkie from his bag and hands it to her. 

“If you change your mind,” he tells her.  “…..we’re headed north.”

She accepts the walkie and brings her eyes back to his.  “Good luck.”

He nods quickly and leans toward her.  “See you soon.”  He puts a hand to her waist and attempts to kiss her cheek, but she stops him with a hand to his cheek.  He is almost afraid to look into her eyes, afraid of what he might see.

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PCA Vote Drabble #3

Y'all can blame @bawsanity for this

I hate my life
Hold on to me
And if you ever decide to leave
Then I’ll go
I’ll go
I’ll go


Ginny’s French-braiding her hair when the doorbell rings. She pushes off the couch and goes to answer it, wondering who’s so bold as to drop by unannounced. She’s had her fair share of visitors since It happened, but she’s managed just enough vitriol to make herself a recluse for the past week. She’s not surprised to find Mike on the other side. He’s the only person who won’t leave her alone. He won’t let her settle into bitterness no matter how much she wants to.

He’s dressed for once, that tattered leather jacket of his still around despite popular demand to the contrary. And carrying a big leather duffel bag. His face is its usual unsmiling self and Ginny can’t help but grin at him. She doesn’t smile much these days but the sight of him does it for her. “Hey old man. You didn’t bring me anything to eat?”

He shakes his head, gestures to come inside. “I just stopped by to tell you goodbye.”

“Somebody shipping you off to the old folks’ home?” She jokes to keep her stomach from digesting itself. He’s been officially retired since It happened and she’s teased him about stealing her thunder.

He shakes his head, smirking only briefly before his expression returns to its usual seriousness. “No, Gin. Listen to me. I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore, be here. And don’t tell me I’m quitting because I gave this town almost two decades of my life. The rest is mine.”

Ginny looks at the bag again. “What do you mean by leaving? Where are you going?”

He shrugs. “First stop is Jamaica. After that, I don’t know.”

Her eyes dart to the bag once more then back to his face. He hasn’t cracked a smile yet. “You’re serious.”

He nods. “It’s time for something different, Baker. I don’t know what but…”

Ginny moves around him and shuts the door. “When are you leaving?”

“Flight’s at 6. I just wanted to tell you goodbye. I texted Blip that I was taking off for a while, but I wanted to tell you in person since…”

He can’t go without letting her know. He thought about it, but after everything that had happened between him, he needs to see those eyes just one more time. Ginny nods then turns and heads into her bedroom. He drops his bag and follows without a thought, hoping she isn’t going to cry. He’ll never be able to leave her if she cries.

But she’s not thrown across her bed sobbing. He finds her in her closet, pulling things off her clothing rack. In an open suitcase on the floor are her favorite trainers. She tosses clothes on top of them then moves to a chest of drawers and begins removing underwear. “Baker, what are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you,” she answers as if it’s that simple.

“What?”

She stops, turns to look at him.

“I’m done, Mike. Baseball’s the only thing I’ve ever known how to do and I can’t even do it anymore. What am I supposed to do? Take a pity position at ESPN? Spend the rest of my life being a trivia question? Maybe do a stint on Dancing with the Stars? I can’t go out like that.” She shakes her head, goes back to packing. “Besides, if we were somewhere else…”

She doesn’t have to finish. It’s been on his mind since he called to tell her he wouldn’t be back and she quietly admitted the same. She wasn’t sure what hurt more: her arm or the knowledge that her groundbreaking career was bookended by a lackluster start and Tommy Johns surgery. And this thing–this strange, intense almost–has been lingering between them since his trade fell through. Somewhere else–somewhere on a beach where no one knew them–their almost could become a definitely.

So Ginny throws everything she needs into a bag and changes out of her sweats into jeans and leather jacket of her own. She undoes her half a braid and pulls her hair into a loose topknot then slips on wayfarers not unlike Mike’s trademark pair. Mike watches all of this from her bed until she turns to look at him. “Shouldn’t you call and get me a ticket?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got two first class seats.”

“Two?”

“I hate sitting beside people,” he replies with a shrug. He smiles. “Present company excluded.”

She closes her suitcase, sends Evelyn a quick text about sneaking away to clear her head, and they leave her hotel through the service entrance in the back of the kitchen. Ginny hands the cook who lets them out a twenty. “You didn’t see us.”

He nods and shuts the door behind them. Ginny doesn’t know that he’s fresh off the boat from Puerto Rico, isn’t even entirely sure who they are. They drive to the airport and Mike uses a little charm to change the name on one of his seats for Ginny. Ginny’s relieved when the use of their full first names inexplicably prevents the airport employee from making the connection.

Eight hours later, they’re lying on a blindingly white beach, using the setting sun to dry them from their dip in the ocean. It was their first stop, their luggage still untouched in their tiny bungalow. Mike reaches over, traces the almost invisible surgical star. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Me either,” she replies.

He frowns. “Do you wanna go back?”

She shakes her head, a smile spreading across her face. “Never.”

anonymous asked:

Tell us some of your Mama!Hawk headcanons please :)

OH MAN

  • My favorite headcanon is that Riza tends to cook food for more than one person and brings it in to share with Ed. Sometimes on the weekends when she’s out and about she’ll swing by their dorm to drop some off. She knows exactly how much she’s making every time; she just wants to make sure he’s getting a proper meal.
  • She shares books with Alphonse and will go to the Eastern library with him to pick some out. She was very well-read as a child and knows that Al was too, so they spend time scouring the shelves for books that they either both haven’t read or that the other hasn’t. 
  • The Elric brothers know her schedule very well and know that she shops on Thursday nights. More often than not they’ll ‘happen to be in thearea’ whenever she gets groceries and will help her carry them home, especially during the spring/summer months when she walks.
  • The Elrics send her flowers every Mother’s Day.
  • The reason the boys are so attracted to her as a maternal figure is because of how she speaks to them. She’s very honest, as we’ve seen in canon. This carries on to their later lives, and they’ll often call her for advice. 
  • Riza was the first of Team Mustang that was informed of Edward and Winry’s engagement.
I have a headcanon that harry tells ginny anything important through lymerics

Ginny came home one day after quidditch training, sweat dripping from her form and eyes closing from exhaustion when suddenly a letter is shoved under her nose. Instinctively she grabs it, still slightly tense from the war- they all are. But she didn’t need to worry, because the writing is a mixture of print and cursive, the capital G for her name unique. She smiles, recognising it as Harry’s writing, before wondering what he can’t say but can write. Curiosity getting the best of her, she reads it, leaning against the doorframe and zoning out the playful squeals from her children.

“Hair dark and pretty,
Her smile lights up the city,
I love her heaps,
My wife’s really neat!
And I might’ve bought a kitty…”

She laughs when she recognises the format as a poem. She smiles when she sees the compliments. Her mouth drops and her eyes widen as she shouts out Harry’s full name. “YOU BOUGHT A CAT?! WHERE IS IT??”

Harry was relieved to realise that Ginny liked cats.

abuse changes how you see everything. people think for some reason that it’s easy to draw the line. that we are only uncomfortable when the fist is flying, that we only have flashbacks when plates drop. acceptable responses.

there’s a post out there about a woman’s petty revenge. how when she’s angry at her husband she doesn’t kiss his sandwiches because he doesn’t deserve the love she gives. and it’s not that deep. i know it’s not that deep. i know it’s just a story and it’s not meant to mean anything.

but now i’m wondering if my boyfriend stops wanting to love me if i make him mad. but now i’m wondering if my future partner will hold back kissing me before i leave for work, just because i don’t deserve it. now i’m wondering if being petty will stop her from loving me. 

see that’s not cute. i know that’s crazy. but i grew up in a house where love was withheld for any reason. i grew up in house where if i wasn’t good enough it would all evaporate in my hands. it’s not about the sandwich. it’s that the sandwich was a rare thing as it was. it’s that the kiss on the sandwich was unheard of. it’s that i’d wake up and sometimes there would be pancakes and sometimes there’d be screaming and that was just normal. that was surviving.

unconditional love isn’t a real thing to me. it’s not a possibility. everything comes with a fine print of “if you don’t behave in a certain way, prepare for the punishment.” and sure it’s okay for me to say i don’t want to get hit. but it changes things. i don’t want him to stop loving me. i don’t want him to hate me. i don’t want this all to end badly. so when i have breakdowns just because she got annoyed with me, when i am untrusting, when i can’t believe that my friends actually want to hang out with me, i’m back to being crazy.

i don’t know. i see other people loving easy. i see other people who didn’t grow up to be good liars, who are bubbly and happy. and i wonder if i could ever get there, instead of being cynical, sarcastic. nasty. if i could just be. happy.

My best friend is leaving to study in a strange new country, and while i couldn’t be happier for her, i wonder what this means for me.

I wonder if the next time she fights with her parents, will she think of dropping by my place and getting some muffins with me?
Will she message me the next time she panics or feels that an anxiety attack may freeze her to the bones?
Will she text me with her weird questions, which i always try my very best to answer?
Will she send me dumb jokes, and tag me in the countless memes she so often does?

When i can not deal with the world anymore, would she be there, from a world away?
What about our impromptu new year’s sleepover? When everyone out there was partying and i felt more alone than ever. But she came to the rescue and we ended up talking all night.
What about our plans? She was supposed to be my maid of honour, and the one who would tell every guy i’m with that she will chop his balls off if he hurts me.

I am a crappy cold person who doesn’t do best-friendship too well. She messages me and i reply after 5 hours, she tells me to post here and i promise her to do it next weekend and never get around to it.  But she is my best friend in the world. She knows everything i know, she has been such an incredible person. What would i ever do without my support system?

But then i think of us, and all we have been through in all the years we have known each other. We evolved from two people who were hardly fond of each other to people who would do anything for each other. No, she doesn’t live anywhere near me. No, she wasn’t in the same school as me. We never depended upon our circumstances to be friends, we were best friends despite them. So why would that ever change?

So yes, my best friend is leaving. My incredible beautiful best friend is leaving to go a few thousand miles away from me. My person, my brave little person is gonna go and meet new people and make new friends and study subjects foreign to her. But i’m not scared, all i feel is an incredible amount of pride. After the worst two years of her life, she is going to embark on a lifetime of happiness, and i couldn’t be happier.

Here’s to you. Thank you for brightening up my life. You know i have your back no matter where we are in the world- I’m just a skype call away.

Love,
Your idiot best friend.

—  The beginning of a Long Distance Friendship
Dead Dandelion Ch.13 (Shalaska) - Wick

A/N: Beep beep, toot toot, it’s been a bit but this old broad is back from Malibu- with an update, for once. For those wondering, I passed my exam with the highest grade possible so for now, I’ll have some time to write too! This update is a bit short but following up after the last chapter’s smut, our two favourite girls talk through some issues.

I still am super thankful for all the feedback and love, it is what keeps me going. You’re all amazing, thank you!

Xoxo Wick

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Hangnail

It started with a hangnail.

I’d always been a fan of picking at myself. Acne, blisters, scabs; you name it, I’d sit there unconsciously toying with it for hours. I have a relatively fair complexion so family trips to the beach as a child would, if I were lucky, result in hours of entertainment. Sometimes, I could even get entire parts of my body to peel without breaking the seal.

When I hit 15, I started to get pretty bad eczema on the backs of my hands and scalp. My parents began to notice the scratching, started to see the flakes I’d leave on my pillow. Mom got me a special shampoo, some dark blue, sulphur-smelling stuff that somehow reminded me of the river of hades. It was supposed to work wonders, but why would I want that? I’d pour a nickel-sized drop in my hand and rub it along the edge of my hairline, lathering it just enough to get the scent on me in case she chose to smell me. I’d let the mounds of dried skin build up for a few days and then absolutely go to town. That was always my favorite. Sometimes, moving slowly and carefully, I’d be able to extract entire inch-wide chunks from the desiccated follicles, little bits of blood flanking the pale greys and whites. I almost felt like an artist.

It all took a turn for the worse a few months later in Mr. Robertson’s English class. He’d been droning on about Baudelaire for about 10 minutes, his usual fare, and I’d been working on a sizable chunk. Sometimes, it would burn as my fingernails dug into my scalp, but it all added to the the experience. I leant my head into my palms and went crazy, scraping my nails in my favorite crisscross pattern.

I was in bliss.

Back and forth I raked, imagining waves crashing into each other in a harmonious swell. I don’t know how long I drifted off for, but the scream which pierced my veil of pleasure was loud enough that I almost fell out of my desk. Reeling, I glanced around and realized the entire class was staring at me. Casey, the short brunette who sat behind me was dry-heaving. I slowly brought my hands around to my desk to find that they were drenched in blood, chunks of scalp poking out from under my nails. The back of my head was on fire. Mr. Richardson didn’t know what to do, he just sent me to the office. My parents were called. That’s when everything changed, when small warning signs were apparently hoisted into huge red flags.

That’s the day I began seeing Dr. Schiefer.

He was calm, calculating, collected. He assured me everything I was doing to myself could be healed - both physically and mentally - with time, patience, and diligence. All we needed to do was flesh things out, go deeper past the surface and extract what was festering underneath and fostering this pain. With his long, thin fingers ending in neatly-manicured nails folded under a chin bereft of a single hair, he was the picture of poised perfection - someone to trust. He smelled of old leather and something deeper, something of the earth. Our first few sessions went fine. We explored my basic interests, activities I liked, and how I was feeling about myself on a day to day basis. He even shared a few tidbits of his own life with me; his favorite movies (we both loved the classics), a fun memory of a barbecue he and his wife has hosted last Fourth of July. Good, simple things. During my sixth session, things changed. I remember waking up that day feeling particularly… good? I felt good about myself, and not in a way that was brought on by my favorite hobby. In the previous sessions, we’d worked out the realization that this obsessive habit wasn’t truly making me happy, and only diverting my attention from the depression and anxiety I’d suffered from as long as I could remember. Over the course of those two weeks, I found myself picking and pulling and peeling less and less. Some of the wounds even started to scab over and show signs of healing. Scabbing would always be the best part, it was like getting two for the price of one. This time, I just watched the skin grow and reform.

I woke up that day, slipped on my favorite red sundress, and actually took the time to apply a little makeup. A sickly-looking girl stared back at me from the spotty mirror. I absentmindedly brought a hand up to my pockmarked face and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. Dr. Schiefer had said I was a beautiful young woman and, again, time and patience could heal most of my wounds. The way he made me feel with his simple yet obviously sincere words was something I’d never experience before.

Stepping into the office annex and nodding a hello to Amy at reception, I sat down and began going over last session’s notes. Dr. Schiefer always had me copy down what my goals were for the next session, whether it be overcoming some new obstacle or simply keeping up progress. I set my hands on my lap and stared at them. Left hand, index finger. A lovely little hangnail. I could feel my eye twitching, so I started cracking my knuckles. I mainly wanted to stop picking at my cuticles - my nailbeds were practically destroyed from years of nervous repetition. All I wanted was to get better, to be able to paint my nails and do my hair and a little bit of makeup and be a tiny bit more effortlessly pretty like the other girls. I could get there. I knew it. I glanced at the clock - 8 minutes until my appointment started. I liked being punctual and, since the third session, mom started letting me catch a bus downtown by myself. She said she was proud of me. She trusted me.

The door swung open and my savior stood there, a warm, inviting figure of health and safety. I brushed past him and he patted my shoulder like he always did. This time, he didn’t let go. I stopped abruptly and looked up into calm, dark brown eyes. He simply smiled and closed the door. He led me over to the familiar red leather couch and sat down with me. His other hand appeared on my knee, just below the hem of my dress, the bright red offset by the pale white of his skin. My heart crept into my throat and my mouth went suddenly dry.

“Today, we’re going to try something new,” said Dr. Schiefer. I blinked. “You’ve been doing so well for the past few sessions that I thought we’d move on to the next part of the course I’ve been working on.”

I began to speak, then shut my mouth. I felt slightly uncomfortable but admittedly pretty excited. He must have sensed the unsureness in my face or the hesitation in my body because the hand resting on my thigh gave the slightest of rubs. It sent electric waves rolling towards the center of my body and I could feel myself flush.

I took a deep breath and murmured “I’ve felt so good over the past few weeks. Anything I can do to feel better. Anything you want”.

He let go of my shoulder, took his hand off of my knee, and stood up, walking over to his desk. Opening the top drawer, he took out a thin black magazine-sized box with gold trim and set it on a pile of invoices. With a tap of his index and middle fingers, he turned to me and smiled first with his eyes, and then his mouth. “This is going to be your new diary”.

I’d always loved diaries. I’d filled out dozens since I was about ten years old and could spend hours recounting the woes of the day. Coincidentally, I was just about to run out of space in my current one. Without hesitation, I stood up and paced over to the desk, picked up the box, and excitedly flipped it open. A red velvet slip with a similarly gold string greeted me. This was one of the nicest gifts anyone had ever gotten me. I pulled at the string, wondering if the beauty of the book would match its container. To this day, I will never forget that feeling of my stomach slipping out of my corporeal form and slamming into the ground. What greeted me was not the “diary” I thought it would be.

The gorgeous stainless steel glinted sharply in the dim but warm light of the office. Hooks and barbs intertwined over crocodile-teeth pliers; tiny monstrous mouths. My mind was reeling. What did this mean? How was this my new diary?

I raised my eyes to Dr. Schiefer’s placid face, poring over it, looking for a hint of anything telltale I could latch onto. There was nothing there but the same caring expression he always carried in my presence.

“What is this?” I asked. A simple question, but all I could muster.

Through the warmth of his smile, he returned “like I said, your new diary. I know you’ve been keeping notes of all of our sessions, but there’s only so much that words can do to help heal. I like to take a more practical approach with some of my special clients. And you, Charlotte, are very special.”

My eyes flicked back down to the box. Ten beautiful and extremely sharp-looking tools sat in perfectly-formed divots, a dark burgundy background hugging them in neat rows. The majority were blades of varying sizes, from a small scalpel with a black rubber base to a larger serrated knife. The latter had a dark red jewel set in the handle, most likely a ruby. To its right sat a playing card sized sheet of metal with slightly raised pinprick holes. It looked like a cheese grater. At the bottom, the longest of the lot, a pair of what looked like eyelash curlers lay parallel to each other, one slightly more curved and sharp at the edge than the other. The last was a normal pair of pliers, the type you would find in a tool chest, save for the intricate white-gold inlay set in the handle. In the dead center of the box, a jewel that matched the one in the largest knife sat surrounded by a simple black border. Entranced by the simplicity and elegance of the tools before me, I jumped a bit when Dr. Schiefer spoke next.

“I’d like to start you on a new program I call Regression Therapy.”

Coming back to reality, I tore my eyes away from the box and frowned.

“My parents can barely afford the sessions we have right now, and I go to public school so it’s not like they can help.”

He held up a hand.

“There’ll be no change in the cost. In fact, it would be better if your parents didn’t know about the new course, as it’s been proven to be most effective when it’s entirely personal and confidential for the patient.”

Alarm bells went off in my head, after school PSAs and endless warnings from my parents, teachers, and other adults bouncing off of each other. That familiar childhood warning of stranger danger, of the “secret promises”. Simultaneously, a growling warmth began spreading in my stomach and up into my chest at the thought of having a secret to share with Dr. Schiefer. Not to mention those tools… there was just something so incredibly attractive about them.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” I asked.

“The exact same thing you were doing before, just more efficiently. More comfortably”. I gulped, my mind racing back to my days of picking and peeling, scratching and cutting.

“I thought I was supposed to stop, that that’s why I’m here.” For the first time since I’d entered the office, his smile faltered.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you were doing. You just didn’t have the right tools at your disposal, and you didn’t have the proper guidance. Sometimes, the only path to actual recovery and healing is to go back the way you came, to find the source and flesh it out.”

I nodded, not fully understanding, but desperately wanting to. I just wanted to please him. To fix myself. I didn’t really care how I did it, and if this was going to help, I would do anything he asked of me.

It started with a hangnail.
_________________________________________________

My bedroom door didn’t lock anymore, but since I’d been showing so much progress in my sessions, and with a few encouraging words from Dr. Schiefer, they’d started letting me have some privacy back in my life. After that sixth session, I’d hurried home, the box tucked deep into my backpack between my school binder and a copy of Seventeen magazine. I didn’t look at a single person on the bus, trying to dissolve my thoughts within the beats pouring out of my headphones, my heart racing in erratic parallel patterns.

Once I’d gotten home, I’d sat on my bed, legs dangling and swinging over the edge, toying with the edge of the box. It really was a beautiful object; I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to observe it in the office, but now that I had it all to myself, I could see geometric patterns crisscrossing over the entire surface. Running my fingers along the dozens of intersecting lines, it felt as though there were untold stories buried in each curve. With a heaving sigh, I threw the box to the foot of my bed. Was I really going to do this? Continue damaging myself after I’d made so much progress? I hadn’t so much as picked at a scab or popped a pimple in a few days. Dr. Schiefer had said anything I did from this point on would be different, that it wouldn’t be damage I was inflicting but rather “true healing”. Through fire, through pain, I could fix myself, make myself whole again.

That’s when the hangnail caught my eye. Left hand, index finger. Lovely and little. Hangnails were fun, so hard and sometimes unruly. They could shed blood so easily, or just pop off in between your fingers or teeth. I glanced at myself in the full length mirror on the back of my door, and saw a puzzle staring back at me. Maybe this was just the final piece.

Did I really have anything to lose?

Bringing my hand up to my mouth, I slid the nub between my teeth and began to chew. Then I remembered the box. Dr. Schiefer had said that I lacked the proper tools to fix myself before, and here he had provided me with a perfect set. “How can I make a hangnail more significant with a bunch of blades?” I asked to no one.

I opened the box, running my fingers over a few blades before stopping on a relatively small one, the tip split in the middle. It felt cold and heavy in my hand, despite its size. I could just bite the hangnail off, but I figured there’s no harm in trying something new. Placing the nub in-between the split portion of the knife’s blade, I pushed down and in, flinching as the steel bit into my flesh and a line of blood formed at the nailbed. I stopped, breathed in deeply, and continued. It felt… clean? As though this was the first time I’d ever actually picked at myself. I felt in control. Then, I sneezed.

I couldn’t move the blade in time. It slid forward. I dropped the knife, clapped my other hand over my mouth, and muffled a scream that would have brought my parents thundering up the stairs. My hand was on fire, my head throbbing. I sat rocking back and forth, big, hot tears streaming down my face. I didn’t want to look, but I knew I had to. Slowly, I raised it up to my face. My entire arm was covered in blood from the tip of my finger down to my elbow. Fat drops fell in indistinct patterns on my dress and bedspread. Starting from the edge of my nailbed, I had shorn off the skin all of the way to my last knuckle. It dangled loosely from my finger, pulsing with new, uncovered life. I felt sick. Throwing the knife to one side, I ran to the connected bathroom (thank god I didn’t have to go downstairs) and vomited into my toilet, the flap of skin slapping against white porcelain.

I slumped against the floor between the toilet and the cabinet and dry-heaved a few times. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at my hand again, so I blindly felt for the loose skin, gingerly folded it up against its separated host, and wrapped far too much toilet paper around it. Aside from a few broken bones and sprains, this was the worst I’d ever hurt myself. There was nothing I could do. I felt my eyelids fluttering, a sense of drowning on dry land, and I succumbed to a sleep deeper than any I’d had in a while, if only for self

_________________________________________________

When I woke, I felt like I was underwater. There was a ringing in the air that I could just barely hear above the sound of my own heart beating and it felt like my arm had been sitting in an open flame for hours. The memory came flooding back to me like a shot; the blade slipping, the searing pain. Unsticking my cheek from the side of the toilet, I lowered my eyes to my hand and cringed. The toilet paper was soaked straight through, red as an apple. I’d really done it this time. I’d straight up disfigured myself. I was disgusting. Weak. Pathetic. This wasn’t therapy. This was mutilation. What the fuck was Dr. Schiefer thinking? Hot anger welled up and burned inside my chest. Then, the fear set in. How was I going to explain this to my parents?

Gritting my teeth, I picked at the edge of the toilet paper. It was stuck, crusted to my skin. I wondered how much blood I lost. I didn’t want to look, but I knew I had to see how bad it was before my parents did. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself and peeled back the toilet paper from the top where the skin had opened.

I stopped and blinked. Nothing.

There was nothing there. No cut. No gristle. No hangnail. No damage.

Mind blank, I tore away the rest of the paper. Aside from dried blood, it was completely fine. My finger was perfectly healed. Was I dreaming? I asked myself. No. The pain was far too real.

On unsteady feet, I picked myself up and stumbled back into my bedroom. There it was; pristine, glinting in the light of my bedside lamp - the knife. There were small splashes of blood on the bedsheet around it, but the blade itself was spotless, just like it’d been when I first opened the box The air was practically humming. Oddly enough, so was the red jewel in the center of the box. It sounded like it was singing to me, soothing my self-imposed pain, and praising me for a job well done. I sat down softly on the edge of the bed and picked it up. It felt electric, alive. Then, I realized, so did I. It was as though a new life had flowed right into me, picking up scattered pieces as it went.

I turned the beauty over and over in my hands, its previously cool surface now glowing with an inviting warmth. I didn’t really understand, but I didn’t need to. One little cut. A tiny amount of pain. Okay, well, a lot of pain.

If a hangnail could make me feel this good, what about a bigger cut?

I guess you could call me impressionable - I’ve always been that way. Quick to jump at anything offering me a better chance. This time, I felt like I could really take it.

Without hesitation, I stuffed a handful of blanket in my mouth, took out one of the larger knives,  and dragged it deeply and swiftly across my thigh. The skin split like butter, right over an old scar. The pain was intense and blinding. I pitched forward, screaming into my self-imposed gag, and grabbed for the other end of the blanket, wrapping it around my leg as quickly as I could. Shaking, I tied a knot and sat rocking back and forth, gripping my leg close to my chest.

Worth it. This was worth it. I could be new. Whole again. Fresh.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Scrambling, the blood pounding in my head, I rushed to throw everything back in the box and shoved it under my pillow. I clicked my lamp off and turned on my side, placing my wounded leg beneath me. As I held my breath, the door quietly creaked open.

“Char?” Mom’s voice was always soft as a feather. She never so much as raised her voice to me.

I feigned sleepiness, dreams dripping from my tongue, and answered “yeah mom?”

She came closer and I could see her silhouette faintly against the light grey of the wall. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she placed a hand on the back of my head and stroked my neck for a moment before sighing deeply.

“Your father and I are so proud of you. I know things have been difficult lately, but you’ve been so strong in the last few weeks. Your birthday party is coming up in just over a month, and we want it to be perfect for you. If you think of anything special you want, just let us know.”

She leaned down, kissed me on the forehead, and left.

Leg burning beneath my blanket wrap and a lump set deep in my throat, I cried myself to sleep. Most nights I dreamt of darkness, the surrounding envelope never nearly enough. That night, I dreamt of the beauty I wish I could be.


“You’re changing, darling” he said, his gaze level and serene. I fidgeted nervously but happily. “All for the better.”

I’d walked into the office with a clouded head for the first time in weeks. The morning after the accident and the subsequent test, I’d felt rejuvenated in a way that words could never touch. I’d woken up, looked at my hand, and then checked under the wrapping on my leg. Both were clear as a perfect Summer day. The skin around the hangnail was smooth and soft. The spot where my scar had been like untouched cream. I was dumbfounded. I knew I hadn’t dreamt any of it. Even if the events hadn’t been so clear in my mind’s eye, the blood spoke volumes. I’d quickly trashed my bedding that morning before my parents could see any of it and got new sheets from the closet. The entire time I was remaking my bed, only one word ran through my mind: perfection. I could carve out the bad. I had the power to remake myself. I could make myself perfect.

“What are you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Schiefer laughed, the sound a deep, hearty rumble. He leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen in his fingers. “Just a doctor, Charlotte. A doctor who wants to see his patients extinguish the parts of themselves that cause them so much hurt, to feel like they’re anything other than beautiful.”


I looked out of the window for a long time, counting the birds landing on the branches of the tree outside. I got to five before I could say anything else.

“How far will it go?” I wondered aloud.

“As far as you’d like.”

“What if I cut too deep?…”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Avoid major arteries and use your best judgement. You’re a smart girl. Trust yourself. Now, come, let me see this week’s diary entries.”

He slinked over to me and sat down on the red leather couch. With hands shaking just the slightest, I lifted my my dress up past my thigh and held my breath. I could hear his own sharply enter his lungs.

“Beautiful” he murmured.

He set warm fingers on cool skin and I felt the same sense of satisfaction I’d gotten from my new toys. The rest of our session was quiet, a conversation based on the currency of exchanged breaths.

_________________________________________________

The next few weeks flew by in a blur of pain, pleasure, and blood.

I’d perfected my methods, learning how to just barely graze the surfaces of mutilation without running the risk of an overnight infection or parental intervention. I felt like I’d truly become an artist. My blades, the brushes. My skin, the canvas . The doctor, my adoring audience. Every session, he would admire my work and pore over the finest details and provide constructive criticism and praise in spades. He was my angel, my benefactor, my muse,

I learned to dance the edges across my skin in wondrous arcs that would’ve put ancient Rome to shame, dazzling the stark white of my skin with crimson notches and mottled violet stars. Every time I cut away a new piece and gave myself to the cycle of sleep, the skin would regrow and reform into something else. Something supple and new. Something beautiful.

With my progress, the pain grew as well. But so did my tolerance and understanding, my respect for the art of feeling in extreme. Eventually, I was shaving off entire half-foot-long patches of flesh, planting the seeds of perfection in my waiting soil and watering them plentifully with my tears and prayers.

For each session, Dr. Schiefer seemed to grow more and more proud. With every new development, his eyes and fingers began to linger for longer, taking in the taut new flesh as though it were the first painting that’d ever struck him silent and numb. Our sessions devolved into explorations of the body and ministrations of the mind. It was everything I’d ever wanted.

Things at home couldn’t have been better. My parents had never so frequently told me how good I looked, complimenting my hair and skin and even clothes left and right. They were so happy with my lack of picking and general positive attitude that they never seemed to notice I’d stopped wearing shorts and t-shirts. Not that there was anything to hide - I never retained a single wound. I just didn’t want to share my newfound glory with anyone but Dr. Schiefer. Thankfully, I’d learned to contain the blood during my nightly sessions to the point where there was almost nothing to clean up anymore.

Everything was going so well that I didn’t realize I’d started to run out of imperfections.

Almost all of my scars were gone. Some places, I’d gone over twice, maybe even three times, but there was nothing left to fix. I looked in the mirror, hatefully marveling at the glowing girl looking back, and wept for my loss.

For the next few nights, I barely touched myself. I couldn’t bring myself to cut open my favorite patch of skin from my stomach or raze the meat on the back of my calves. I didn’t mention anything to Dr. Schiefer. I could feel myself becoming despondent in our sessions, but there was nothing I could do about it. If he noticed, he didn’t let on; he was far too enthralled in the thickets of Spring’s new garden, freshly bloomed.

My birthday party was fun but completely overshadowed by my distant, nagging sorrow. But I put on a happy face, the happiest one I could muster, if only for my parents. Especially for mom. She’d been so proud. So proud of my happiness and healing. That night, I’d laid awake staring at the ceiling, willing the small cracks to open up and swallow me whole. They just sat there, dark blemishes on an otherwise white surface. I was exhausted, desperately hoping for the embrace of sleep. It felt years away.

Then, my mind wandered. To my box; my brushes. I hadn’t been ruining my canvas, like I had all those previous years - I’d been prepping it. I could paint myself a whole new surface. Throw a fresh coat on the entire thing and start anew.

I hopped out of bed, put down a towel, and got to work. I tore through layer upon layer, summoning rivers from my driest banks and letting the wildlife lap at the shores. An ocean of blood pounded in my ears and my bones creaked in opposition, but I just sliced and scratched and picked to every organic rhythm.

Oozing from dozens of fresh strokes, I bandaged myself up, took an Advil, and went to sleep, the sound of my ocean crashing waves in my ears.

When I woke up, I was drowning.

My entire frame felt like it’d been soaked in gas and thrown in a wildfire. I sat up with bile rising in my throat, the rush bringing a chorus of shrieking angels to dance on my skull, and tried to run to my bathroom. My legs gave out midway and I crashed to the floor. As my arms landed in my field of vision, I saw a gruesome carnival of wounds peppering my skin. I screamed. Thankfully, my parents were both at work that morning, but I’m surprised the entire neighborhood didn’t come pounding on the door. Panic running wild, I scrambled into the bathroom and stopped dead when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like one of those illustrations from an old anatomy book. A good portion of my skin was just flat out missing or horribly riddled with gruesome patterns, every conceivable space weeping red.

I had to see Dr. Schiefer immediately. My next appointment wasn’t until two days from now, but I needed him to see this, to fix it.

Blind with fear, I covered myself as best as I could, gingerly dragging clothing over my ruined skin. I looked ridiculous in the heat, dressed head to toe in a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and a scarf. Thankfully, I hadn’t touched my face or hands. I grabbed a pair of sunglasses and ran to the door. Then, it caught my eye. My box. My brushes. My tools. They’d been so good for me, I’d derived so much pleasure and growth from them. They’d betrayed me. A flash of anger coursed through me, and I grabbed the box, shoving it into my bag.

The bus ride felt like it took eons. I could feel everyone’s eyes burning holes in my clothes, seeing the carnage underneath. The second I saw the corner with the office, I jumped up. The woman next to me gasped. Looking down, I saw her staring in horror at my seat. I followed her gaze and my stomach lurched. A small pool of blood had formed, and more was dripping from underneath my shirt. She raised her eyes to meet mine and I could see her lips forming words she didn’t want to speak, but the distant whoosh of the bus door sliding open saved me. I ran out, across the street, and didn’t stop until I saw Amy at the receptionist’s desk.

I’d called ahead while waiting at the bus stop, and I guess she’d grown a soft spot for me because she’d penciled me in; there’d been a last minute cancellation.

I nodded a thank you and made a beeline for Dr. Schiefer’s door. The brass handle felt cold and uninviting in my hand. I wrenched it open and stepped inside, slamming it behind me. There he was, his demeanor calm and collected as ever, until he looked up at me. I don’t know if it was the expression on my face or if he maybe saw the blood that’d been seeping through my clothes in the 20 minutes it’d taken me to get there, but as soon as his eyes met mine, he paled. The facade of collectedness dropped like a curtain drawn on a badly executed play.

“Charlotte… Amy said you were coming. Are you alr-”.

“There’s. Something. Wrong” I breathed, each syllable a pained effort.

He stared at me. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he put away the notepad he’d been writing in and patted the chair. “Come and sit.”

“I don’t want to talk.” I said. “I want you to fix this”.

“Fix what, darling?” The last word felt like so much poison on his lips. I cringed.

Like lightning, I had the box out of my bag and slammed it on his desk with a crack. He pushed back his chair, the wood scraping jarringly on the floor.

“THEY’RE BROKEN!” I nearly screamed.

A knocking sound pierced the veil of my anger. “Is everything alright in there?” Amy’s voice called through the door.

Shaking just the slightest, Dr. Schiefer responded “Yes, thank you.” He didn’t sound too sure.

He turned back to me with an uneasy smile that definitely didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s broken, Charlotte? I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t work through.”

Seething, I grabbed my left sleeve and pushed it up to my elbow. His face betrayed him instantly. It twisted into an expression of shock, then disgust. I pushed up the other sleeve, and the expression doubled over.

His eyes, now small and beady, flitted up to mine. I could see everything I needed to know. His next words were lies.

“It looks like you went a little too far, sweetheart, but we…” he gulped audibly, “we can fix this.” He reached out a hand to touch mine. I slapped it away.

“Too FAR?” I said. “Too fucking FAR?”

The anger coursing through me covered any sense of pain I had left. All I could see now were fires burning the office to ash and melting the skin from his ever concerned face. I ripped my shirt over my head, taking the scarf with it, and unhooked my bra, throwing them on his desk. He stared in absolute abject horror, struck silent. Unbuttoning and kicking off my jeans and underwear, I stood before him, stark naked, in all my visceral bleeding glory. His hand awkwardly fumbled for the phone at the corner of his desk, but I grabbed it before he could reach it and threw it against the wall. It shattered, sending a wave of plastic across the floor.

“I’ll show you too fucking far.”

Dragging a chair to the door, I managed to block it just in time. Amy was now pounding on it, yelling to ask what the noise was. I flew back to the desk, flipped open the box, and tipped it over, sending my instruments tumbling across the polished mahogany surface. I took my favorite scalpel, looked him directly in the eye, and cut down into the back of my forearm until I hit bone. Blood spurted out, covering both of us. Dr. Schiefer screamed, the sound completely unsuitable for a man of his placid nature, and fell backwards into the wall with a crash. The pounding on the door grew louder, but I didn’t care. I had my brushes and my canvas and my muse; all a girl could ask for.

_________________________________________________

It took twenty minutes for the police to arrive and bust down the door. In that time, I’d managed to create my best work of art yet. I had a brand new, blank canvas. A good artist is never finished, never satisfied.

This hospital is nice and clean. Very minimal. I’ve been here for almost a week now. They have me on sedatives most of the time, which I don’t really mind, though I do miss the pleasure in my pain - no bother, it’s not like my nerve endings really function anymore. Mom and dad visit me as much as they can. Mom sometimes passes out with her head against my pillow, tears staining the sheets. Dad’s just quiet.

The doctors say my body will never fully recover. You ever peeled a grape as a kid? That’s what the majority of my skin looks like now. Just red, fleshy pulp. The cheese grater thing really did a number on me, and the pliers weren’t too forgiving. I really miss my brushes, but it’s okay. No matter where you are, who you are, what you are, someone in this big wide world will find the beauty and the art in you. The young male orderly who works nights in my wing of the hospital is my newest patron. He likes the freshness beneath my bandages. I guess there really is a fetish for everything. He’s been so sweet, though. Waiting on me hand and foot, bringing me whatever he can sneak in. He found me some new brushes. Beautiful, sterile ones. And he showed me how to hide this file while I’ve been documenting my journey. After a few days and all the psych evaluations, they’d allowed me a laptop to keep a diary because holding a pen was too difficult. I’ve always loved diaries. I keep a second one, droll things about my day, my thoughts, my inner struggles, my hopes and dreams. I know they read it. But this one’s been my little secret.

My exhibit in Dr. Schiefer’s office was a hit. I wasn’t his first project, but I know I was special. It’s a shame that they took him away because of all of those photos and videos and logbooks he kept. He was just an appreciator of the arts.

I’ve given myself three more days. A good artist meets deadlines and isn’t afraid of a challenge. I’ll open my next and final show to worldwide acclaim; I just know it. My canvas burns with desire and I can hear my new brushes singing to me from beneath my mattress. Pick me. Choose me.

Become beautiful.